


Trust Your Gut

by meaninglessblah



Series: Prompts & Fills [5]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Damian Wayne is Robin, Dick Grayson is Batman, Evil Tim Drake, Gen, Major Character Injury, Possible Character Death, Revenge, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27238843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: Dick’s intuition rarely steers him wrong. But he’d moved with his head (he tells himself) or his heart (Dick lies sometimes, even to himself), and he’s paying the price for it.He thought-Hethought.He’d trusted his head, and not his gut. And now there’s a knife buried in it, the hilt slick with his blood.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson
Series: Prompts & Fills [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1987264
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	Trust Your Gut

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Frantic_Vampire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frantic_Vampire/gifts).



> An old prompt fill, moved over from Tumblr. The prompts were "Straddling their waist" and "Leans in close to whisper", asked by franticvampirereads <3

It’s not often that Dick’s intuition steers him wrong. He wouldn’t still _be_ here if he wasn’t able to trust the swoop of his gut before the grapnel caught, or the upswing of the trapeze as he twisted. 

Most people think Dick moves with his heart; but he’s an aerialist, and up in the air, where there’s only feeling between the catch and the crash, there’s nothing left to trust but his gut. It’s steered him through his years as Robin, through his tenure as Nightwing, and now through the mantle of the cowl. 

Dick’s intuition rarely steers him wrong. But he’d moved with his head (he tells himself) or his heart (Dick lies sometimes, even to himself), and he’s paying the price for it. 

He thought- 

He _thought._ He’d trusted his head, and not his gut. And now there’s a knife buried in it, the hilt slick with his blood. 

Tim’s above him, and Dick’s a little stunned by how much the red of his Robin suit matches the blood slicked up his arms. That, or the bloodloss might be making him dazed, slow to respond. 

When he reaches for the handle, Tim reaches over with his empty hand and shoves Dick’s gloved wrist back to the concrete with a grin. Slides the knife a few crucial inches deeper in reprimand, and Dick sucks in a sharp breath. 

“Tim,” he bleats, low and steady. Not low enough to match Bruce’s gravelly timbre, but Dick’s learning all the tricks that come with the cowl. “What’s wrong?” 

He laughs. Bright and strained and thrumming with _rage,_ and Dick’s gaze skates over the twist of his lips, the sneer on his youthful features, looking for the needle puncture, or the stain of Ivy’s pollen, or- or- 

Tim shifts atop him, angles his hips down so he can drive the air from Dick’s lungs with his weight - and he’d known Tim was older now, bigger now, but he hadn’t _noticed._ He settles on Dick’s hips, straddling his waist, and his grip doesn’t falter on the knife. 

“I’m not dosed,” he says, and Dick’s gaze flashes up at how steady it is, how matter-of-factual. How he can seem to read his mind behind the lens of the cowl, almost as well as Dick can read bodies. Sometimes Dick thinks Tim can see the future, he’s so prepared. Other times he thinks Tim’s just too stubborn to let fate take them down any other path than his own. 

“Tim,” Dick tries again, winces when the knife scrapes his ribs. 

In his ear, his comm comes online, and Dick hears Damian say, “Batman?” 

“Here, Rob- _in_!” 

Dick’s wrist twitches in Tim’s grip when he tries to reflexively reach for the knife, the blade that Tim twists maliciously into his side. He flashes a stunned glare up at the teen, catalogues the two places his other arm is broken in, and tries to force his muscle to go lax around the intrusion. 

“Batman,” Damian repeats, an edge of concern to his voice. Dick can hear him moving, presumably running through Riddler’s traps with record timing. 

“Fine,” Dick grits out, holding Tim’s gaze. “I’m fine. Focus on the mission.” 

“The mission,” Tim repeats, a scoff of derision lodged in the back of his throat. “What do either of you know about _the mission_?” 

“Are you s-” 

“ _Robin_ ,” Dick growls, and doesn’t miss the flash of loathing in Tim’s gaze this time. Is prepared for the flex of his grip on the knife. “Focus.” 

“How’s Robin handling my riddles?” Tim asks, and Dick’s stomach swoops sharply. 

“Robin,” he says, and knows Damian pauses, hangs off his every word in a way he never did his father’s. “Get out of there. _Get out of-_ ” 

His words are garbled in his choke when Tim clamps down on his windpipe, crushes it beneath a steady and sure palm. He hears Damian change course, hears the rush of wind as he takes to the rooftops, and he’s not close, but he has to be able to- 

Tim jerks him up, slams him back down on the concrete in a way that jostles the blade inside him, and Dick groans and _focuses._

“It was me,” Tim hisses, snarls around a mouthful of teeth. “ _I_ brought the Batman back. _I_ brought back Robin. That suit is _mine_ , and you _gave it away_!” 

“Batman,” Damian says again, quick and hurried, and Dick wants to comfort him, wants to reassure him, but Tim’s hand is still on that knife and- 

“Now he’s running around in my outfit,” Tim continues. “And me? ‘Be the bigger man, Tim’. ‘He’s just a kid, Tim, be mature’. ‘It’s _just a suit, Tim_ ’.” 

“Tim, I’m sorry,” Dick whispers, but Tim’s already laughing. 

“I don’t want your apology, Dick. You know what I want?” 

Dick groans, and arches around the knife, and hisses, “What? What do you want, Tim?” 

Tim shifts, expression blanking for a moment as he reaches down. Slides his fingers up Dick’s jawline to where his cheekbones meet the hard, smooth exterior of the cowl. Traces the outline of his features like a reverent child. 

When he tugs the cowl from Dick’s head, he doesn’t try to stop him. Doesn’t offer any resistance other than a grunt and a huff of hissed air between his teeth. Holds still and pliant - placating, even now - as Tim leans down close enough to brush his lips on the shell of Dick’s ear. 

He expects a whisper, expects a shout, but all Dick gets is silence. Chilling, tense silence. Almost as if Tim’s waiting. 

He understands why when his comm lights up, and Damian’s voice filters through with a terse, panicked, “ _Dick_?” 

“I _want_ ,” Tim whispers, “Robin back.” 

There’s a beat of silence, and then Damian growls down the line, “Batman, I’m rerouting to your location. Just stay on the-” 

Dick doesn’t hear anymore, because Tim digs the comm out of his ear with blunt efficiency and flicks it across the rooftop. Dick swallows down concern and the first inklings of fear, and wets his lips. Finds himself slipping back into his basics while his pulse runs high. 

_Stall and distract until help can arrive,_ Dick’s head says _._ “Tim, you don’t need to- _ngghuh_!” 

“Have you ever known me to be distracted?” Tim reminds him bluntly, and Dick switches tacks. 

_Sympathize with them; most crime comes from a place of desperation, a cry for help._ “I understand how you feel,” Dick tells him evenly. “When I came back to find Jason in my duds, the outfit my parents had given me-” 

“And you did it anyway. You knew what that felt like, and you gave him Robin anyway.” 

_He’s hurting,_ Dick’s heart tells him, _he’s scared._ “You’re right; I shouldn’t have done it. I know better now. Thank you, Tim, for making me realise. It’s going to be okay. I’m not angry, Tim. I’m just scared for you.” 

“I don’t care,” Tim tells him, and Dick swallows hard. 

_Connect with him._ “You should care. You’ve done so much for this family, so much for Robin, so much for Batman. And I need,” Dick says, pauses for air. Tries to muster up the tone Bruce used to use on him, has used on all the Robins. “I need you to do one last thing for me.” 

“I’d love to, Dick,” Tim tells him with coy levity. “I really would. One last thing for the Batman. The man I dedicated my _entire life_ to. The ideal I gave up _everything_ for. But there’s just one problem. You know what that is, Dick?” 

“What?” Dick says, prays Damian is close. He’ll be arriving soon, any moment, and he’ll stitch Dick’s wound, and they’ll get him to a hospital, and he’ll- he’ll- 

The glint of Tim’s teeth in the light makes Dick’s heart stall, makes his brain run empty as he holds Dick’s gaze. “I’m not Robin anymore.” 

Then he yanks the knife out, opens the floodgates, and Dick gives him a choked shout for his effort, more startled fear than actual pain. The shock is numbing the wound, but they both know, they’ve both been _trained_ to count the crucial seconds of blood loss. Both over-familiar with the sluggish drip of consciousness fading. 

_Pressure,_ his brain instructs. 

_Pressure,_ his heart agrees. 

_You’re going to die,_ his gut tells him. 

As always, Dick trusts his gut. 

**Author's Note:**

> [ ](https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah)


End file.
